


An Upcoming Noise Complaint

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Mutter Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 02:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: The same night after a particularly tiresome concert, Till returns to their shared hotel room to find Paul dancing to Sting with a cup of vodka in his hand. Not exactly what he expected after being told to go buy more condoms.





	An Upcoming Noise Complaint

**Author's Note:**

> Big surprise: I ship these two, as well. Inspired partially by [this post](https://babypaulchen.tumblr.com/post/177766168161/l4ichzeit-till-and-paul-sharing-clothes)!

The [upbeat melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7km4EHgkQiw) of the song is loud and commanding, carelessly turned up to an inconsiderate point of volume. Till can hear it through the hotel door as he struggles to get it open with the flimsy keycard. Once he manages to actually get the door open, the volume intensifies and suddenly Till is enveloped by the voice of Sting. And the voice of Paul.

He is crying out the lyrics, singing aloud to himself with such passion, as if it wasn’t three in the morning. Till shuts the door behind himself. Paul sent him on an errand to fetch some condoms—he didn’t anticipate an upcoming noise complaint upon his return. He kicks off his untied boots and steps further into their shared hotel room. Passing the wall which separates bathroom from bedroom, Till is greeted by the sight of Paul dancing: swaying, twisting, hands in the air, a broad grin on his face, eyes closed, his cheeks flushed. He looks radiant. One of the hotel’s paper coffee cups is raised, clutched in a hand. Must be from the vodka bottle that is innocently perched on the table.

Paul begins to pump his fist along with the lyrics as he shouts them, so energetic and intense in his enthusiasm to sing along with Sting. Till is familiar with Paul’s screech-singing from his earlier punk days, and, of course, the back-up vocals for Rammstein, but not the melodic, kinder _English_ that he’s singing now. Till is amazed. As if he has a sixth sense, Paul’s head turns, his eyes opening and hands lowering. Till realizes he’s wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts, which is far too big on him. It hangs loosely around his arms, baring one shoulder, reaching easily to his mid-thighs. Joining that is a pair of jeans.

“Come here!” Paul shouts, and then hurries over to the table to sloppily place down his beverage. Till smiles faintly. He tosses the plastic bag he held onto the bed. Paul joins him at the center of the room, reaches out to clutch his wrists. Sting’s singing engulfs them as Paul grabs his hands, holding them so tightly Till wonders if he’s even aware of the forcefulness of his grip. He tugs Till against himself, begins to twist him side to side and around as best he can manage considering Till isn’t moving much, remaining rooted on his feet.

“If I ever lose my faith in you—!” Paul shouts at Till, grinning broadly with stars in his eyes, pressing himself into the other man dramatically, withdrawing one hand from Till’s to gesture broadly with it, bellowing happily, “There’d be nothing left for me to do! Hey, hey!”

That has Till cracking a broader smile, accentuating his dimples. Paul continues swaying and jumping and twisting his head, swinging their arms around with his grasps on Till’s hands, belting lyrics out passionately despite Till’s lack of enthusiasm, until the crescendo softens, along with Paul’s commitment to singing. Then he’s arching up onto his toes, winding one arm around Till’s neck, pulling him in for a firmly planted kiss against his lips—his developing stubble tickles Till’s jaw. Till returns it in a firm peck that has Paul humming, pleased.

“Hi,” Paul greets, pulling back to grin at him breathlessly, eyes amused and noticeably glassy, “Didja get them?”

Till glances towards the bed—Paul follows his eyes and spots the bag. He squeezes Till’s broad hand firmly and then detaches himself to approach the small stereo set up on the hotel dresser. He turns it down just as the next song begins, whirls around on the ball of his foot and approaches the bed to snatch the bag. He digs out the box and tears it open, throwing a glance towards Till to say with a smirk, “Well, come on then. Let’s make use of it before I pass out.”

“Okay,” Till agrees, his first word spoken since his return—he reaches up to tug off his black shirt, exposing muscle and the dark hair that decorates his chest and abs. Paul grins. He tosses the box onto the bed, yanks Till’s long-sleeved shirt off of himself, revealing a plethora of freckles and a couple bruises from today’s show. His black-banded necklace and accompanying silver chain sink into the dip of his collarbone. Till steps closer and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugs him closer which evokes a sharp laugh. Paul’s slender hands rest on Till’s muscular biceps, squeezing firmly as Till gets his jeans open and undone.

Till is silent and controlled, tired and patient, while Paul is energetic and restless, eager and demanding. His hands skitter across Till’s broad shoulders and further upwards to cup his jaw, fingers splaying across his stubble. Till watches his smiling face with hooded eyes and the faintest smile on his full lips. Just as Till begins to grope at Paul through his briefs, Paul arches up onto his toes while coaxing him down by the gentle hold on his face, to kiss him with limitless passion behind the quick purses of his smiling lips.

 

* * *

 

It’s afternoon by the time they wake up later that day; the sunlight is peeking into the hotel room beyond the closed drapes of the window that expands across the far wall. The silence is comfortable and contenting. The warmth is kind and soothing. Till cracks his eyes open to see the softly lit ceiling. Exhaustion is evident in his limbs. Perhaps getting rest following such an exerting concert would’ve been ideal, instead of indulging Paul. Regret is the farthest emotion from him right now, despite that. (Although, fucking to Sting might be instigating _some_ regret.)

He tiredly looks over to his side to see Paul’s bare back exposed to his view. His limbs and lower half are submerged in the sea of plush, white blankets, his arms draped up over the pillows, hands limply pressed to the headboard. His dark hair is a wild mess. It’s cute. Till smiles. He can’t see his face, but it’s a serene, heartwarming image regardless.

Till admires the freckles spotting his shoulders and back, the birthmarks he can find along pale skin. For a while he watches him, patient in preserving this moment, this contentment. Eventually, he wants to see life in him. He reaches out to stroke his fingertips along the curve of his shoulder blade. Paul twitches, shifts. It takes a moment for him to wake up and process he’s conscious, and then he looks back at him, disgruntled and noticeably annoyed. His grimace weakens when he realizes it was Till. He splats back into the pillows and slurs a tired curse.

“Why did you let me drink last night,” Paul mumbles, sliding one hand in to rub at his face, pressed against the pillow. Till hums.

“You drank when I was absent. I suppose I shouldn’t have left you unsupervised.”

Paul laughs, sleepily. He rolls over to face Till, already smiling after being conscious for at most twenty seconds. He wiggles closer to Till, invading his personal space to look up at him with sleep-heavy eyes and a pursed smile, his arms folded close to himself. Till draws an arm around him, strokes a calloused hand up his back. Paul shudders in his embrace, leans in to rest his forehead against his chest. Till kisses him on the head, nose among messy locks. Paul goes lax underneath his arm, lets out a deep exhale. He speaks quietly.

“I had a dream that you, me, and Richard attended a Megaherz concert, but we climbed up on stage and stole all their instruments and took over the concert.”

“Is that a secret fantasy of yours?” Till muses tiredly while he raises a hand to begin petting Paul with slow strokes over his disheveled hair. Paul huffs a laugh.

“Now it is.”

 

For another twenty minutes, they continue laying together among the swarm of hotel blankets, cuddling in relative quietness, save for the occasional comment from Paul, before one of them catches sight of the alarm clock. It’s almost twelve in the afternoon. They decide to get up and find the others considering the absence of a rude awakening is strange. Paul crawls out, as naked as the day he was born, and begins digging around in his suitcase while Till meanders tiredly into the bathroom to piss, nude himself.

Upon his return after doing such a thing, he walks back into the room to see Paul now wearing his jeans again, pulling on one of his shirts (not _Till’s_ ). It’s followed by the olive green zipper jacket with the emblem on the shoulder. Also known as _Till’s_ jacket. Till sighs, but doesn’t stop him from claiming it. Paul looks smug as he adjusts the collar and fixes the cuffs. Till lumbers past him to slap open the cover of his suitcase to begin rifling through his selection of clothing. Without an unnecessary comment, Paul goes to wash his face and brush his teeth in the adjoined bathroom, mercifully leaving Till to deal with the annoyance of picking his presentation.

Soon after he’s dressed, Till joins him in the too-small bathroom to shave with him, standing side by side at the too-small sink.

Once they’re redressed and more or less washed up (Till’s hair hidden by a beanie considering he’s not in the mood to gel up his mohawk), Paul curls a slender hand around Till’s muscular bicep and stops him at the door. Till glances over and arches a brow at him. Paul arches up to peck him on the lips—too quickly for Till to return it. Till looks at him coolly when Paul falls back on his feet. Paul grins, bearing his crow’s feet, and says, “Let’s go bug Richard and drag him out of bed.”

Till manages a slight smirk.

“Sounds like fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
